


Fledgling Killer

by TheQueenisIn



Category: Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-31
Updated: 2014-08-31
Packaged: 2018-02-15 12:39:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2229288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheQueenisIn/pseuds/TheQueenisIn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pre-capture and FBI training AU. Hannibal and college student Clarice meet for the first time while they are each hiding bodies in the woods. Dr. Lecter helps her get away with it. miiiiight feature Will Graham later on</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. All Corpsified and Gross

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a short writing exercise but now it's 16 pages and still growing. I hate the Clannibal muse. Originally posted on tumblr (mandala-lore.tumblr.com)  
> -  
> Clarice is a tad ooc because this is before her FBI training and she's just murdered a man.   
> ***Mentions of non-consensual situations and sexual blackmail but nothing graphic.***

His work was complete. The noisy, drug-dealing couple from across the street of his residence lay in a patchwork heap of body parts in the woods an hour and a half away from home. Hypodermic needles pierced their eyes and tongues; the man’s leg, the woman’s cheek, her left flank, his discolored and broken hand - all lay in precise and unorthodox positions across the leave-strewn forest floor. A gruesome gift for the Baltimore PD.

Feeling satisfied and growing tired, Dr. Hannibal Lecter buttoned up his vest and suit jacket, threw the plastic bodysuit which protected his identity back in the trunk but did not close the door. A harassed looking owl flew at him out of the warm darkness of the late September night, displaced by the sound of scraping metal and tires crushing leaves from thirty feet away. Hannibal listened and there was silence and the ignition was turned off. Then heavy breathing, perhaps sobbing. Footsteps. 

Intrigued (and cover blown), he removed shoes and socks and made himself perfectly silent. 

-

It wasn’t that Clarice Starling thought she would get away with it – Professor Elliot Logan’s murder would unequivocally be traced back to her – but what else was there to do but hide the body. It had been an accident - sort of - certainly not premeditated. There had been no plan, no cleanup. In her mind, it was all a jumble of quick movement and raw hatred. She had fucked up any possible future she might have had. There would be no studying at Quantico, no career at the FBI. She couldn’t even finish her degree. All she could hope for was a quick escape and a quiet, painfully ordinary life far away; somehow paying penance for what she had done. “It would’ve been better to stay at home and be just like Momma - coping but only half alive,” she thought bitterly. 

Within three hours, twenty year old Starling was covered in dirt and there was a streak of dried blood down her front. The air smelled of rain on the horizon. Good. The hole she dug was deep enough to deter police hounds but the fresh soil would have to be layered with leaves and whatever else she could find if she wanted to last more than a week. “On the run,” she thought. “Again. How ironic.”

Except this time she couldn’t just jump on her horse and ride to salvation. Not that it had even worked the first time. Her calculus professor was about as heavy as a horse, she realized. He was fifty-seven, divorced twice, no children. His body was wrapped in eleven giant, black garbage bags. Clarice couldn’t see it but he was sickly pale now, drained of more blood than she had originally guessed and rigor mortis was already setting in. 

She got on her knees and rolled him into the shallow grave, expending the last of her energy from the left over adrenaline. She heard one of her victim’s bones break with a disgusting crack and with that final thud, she was half done. Starling settled back in the dirt and allowed herself a breather. Almost six hours since she had killed a man and Clarice tried not to wonder when he would be missed. He lived alone, it was Thursday night and he didn’t teach on Fridays…..

Someone was behind her and her heart stopped. Instinctively she knew it was better to feign ignorance than try to run or fight. Her gun was at home, she had pepper spray in her purse - in the car. Her mustang was fifteen feet away but the keys were in her pocket. Starling sat very still and strained her ears. She wondered if she was merely being paranoid - then her spy shifted and she could just hear the leaves rustle. Not an animal. Tall. She could smell expensive cologne and, just beneath it, Human. About seven feet behind her. 

She swallowed, carefully got up, got the shovel, and started to pile dirt onto the body. Out of the corner of her eye she could just make out a silhouette - tall, male, white, dark hair. White noise filled her head. Fear. Disbelief. How had she ended up here. 

Shovel tight in hand, she changed positions so the pile of dirt was between them and she was facing the intruder. She looked directly into maroon eyes. 

-

She was young, hardly twenty, fit and graceful - even in her gruesome work. He watched her compose herself and open the trunk of an old but well-cared-for mustang, pull with all her weight, and deposit a bundle of trash bags on the forest floor. The woman was crying, though she seemed totally oblivious of it. She was pretty (stunningly beautiful, actually) even in cheap dress pants and that hideous blouse, the front of her covered in blood. Shoulder-length auburn hair was pulled back with shaky hands into a messy pony tail. 

She got straight to work and never even noticed the good doctor. By the time she was finished digging the hole (an admirable effort for a woman of her size, this late at night, and as distraught as she seemed) he had maneuvered to the opposite side of the wood and was directly behind where she settled herself into an agitated rest. He could smell her sweat and the oncoming rain. 

When she got up he stepped a little closer, just in case she tried something, but she managed to put some distance and the dirt pile between them. Clever, brave, poised to run or fight. Remarkable. 

"Ok, come out now. You got me." Southern or Midwestern accent.

- 

She said it more calmly than she felt, wondered if her exhaustion sounded as obvious to him as it did to her. Whoever he was, he didn’t hesitate or try to run but did as he was told and she could see him better in the clearing, with a moon shining on them both. Intimidating, handsome, only about as tall as she was, well-dressed. Older, at least forty-five, probably more. 

"You gonna call the cops?"

"No." That was suspicious. Blackmail? She wasn’t sure she could handle more of that today without resorting to dumping another body in that hole. 

"Why not?" 

"Why should I?" She was stumped there. He seemed harmless enough but she supposed most men in expensive suits didn’t turn out to be stand-up citizens. 

"I killed him," she said quietly. "Sort of an accident, but I hated him. Most people would send me to jail."

"I wouldn’t." It sounded like a sacred vow, his eyes staring straight into her. 

-

She dropped the shovel, ran her fingers through her hair. She trusted him - or, at least, didn’t consider him a threat, or perhaps she _did_ but she wanted to be caught and punished. That almost made him smile but she looked so upset he couldn’t muster it. He only took one step closer, up to the dirt pile, but it was worth it to see her better. 

When her hands left her face to wrap around herself defensively, he could see how tired she looked. Vulnerable. Suddenly she lurched away from the grave and dry-heaved into a pile of walnut leaves. She was shivering, cool air from the northwest sweeping over them, thunder in the distance. 

When he came back to himself his suit jacket was around her shoulders, he was rubbing her back while she wiped her mouth on the sleeve. When had he decided not to kill her? Lecter supposed she hadn’t seen him doing anything unsavory, focused as she was on her own crime. 

She managed not to cry in front of him, couldn’t really muster tears anyway. After a while, he decided to explore her. 

"Did he deserve it?" The way his mouth curled around vowels was dangerous. 

"Of course not -”

"My promise not to turn you in only stands so long as you do not lie to me." He hadn’t raised his voice but the threat was menacing enough; she had no way of knowing it was half empty. 

She swallowed back fear and looked him in those red eyes. “Yes,” it sounded cold and clear to her. Hannibal Lecter nodded. 

She told him everything, sparing the details of her pleading with the deceased not to do this to her and how his only response was that he hated it when grown women tried to cry to get their way. 

"He was your professor, supposedly a man of integrity and wisdom, and he tried to take advantage of you." He looked disgusted. 

She nodded. It was almost too much. The way the stranger put it almost made it sound as if she were righteous. 

He introduced himself, she thanked him for his coat, promised to clean it of mud and saliva. 

"Doctor of medicine?" Her voice croaked and he wished he could offer her a glass of water or hot tea.

"Psychology." His hands intruded into the inside pocket of the jacket on her shoulders, brushing against her ribcage, and pulled out a handkerchief, handing it to her.

She laughed and it knocked the breath out of lungs and his mind back to the desperate and dizzying fumbles of pubescence. He gently, almost imperceptibly, shifted so he could smell her hair. The corners of his mouth tugged up against his will, he looked at her questioningly. 

"Sorry," she was out of breath and leaning toward him, all traces of that burst of laughter gone. "It’s just… the thing I need most right now is probably a psychiatrist."

Oh, how wrong she was. How easy this would be. 

He decided they should leave but she refused to abandon her car there so he agreed to follow her back to the road so she could follow him home from there. It was risky but she didn’t seem the type to run away.

-

Clarice couldn’t believe she was going to follow a strange man home, this late at night, without telling anyone where she was - when she had school the next morning. Not that she was worried about attending, but really the number of personal rules she was breaking almost made murder seem like a tiny negligence. 

Dr. Lecter was probably calling the police already, she mused. He was a psychiatrist who had skillfully captured a killer before anyone had even reported the murder. Of course he had only told her she would be safe at his home until she knew what to do because he was handing her over. She followed him anyway. 

-

It was 1:37 A.M.  and thunder storming when he unlocked his front door and turned on the hall light for her. He took his coat from her as she smoothed down her wet hair and looked around. It was soothing, she couldn’t think of another word for it. Warm and masculine, paintings and tapestries on the walls, soft rugs over hard wood floors. Antiques and very old books were on the tables and in glass cases. She realized how exhausted she was when her eyes went blurry and the walls began to spin.

He caught her just in time, small thing. Her shoes had tracked mud onto a priceless Turkish carpet; he catalogued the number of things he would have to hide for her before sunrise. Car. Clothes. Shoes. The bone saw on the counter and raw kidneys in the freezer. He bent to carry her under the knees but she steadied herself.

“I am so sorry,” she said. “Been a rough day.” She took the shoes off and he led her upstairs, bypassing the kitchen.

“Oh, I left my bag in the car,” she said, halfway through the upstairs hall. “All my clothes and things…”

“I’m sure I have something that will fit you,” a soft touch to the small of her back herded her into a small guest room that had never been used. It was dark and nearly empty. But a comfortable bed and a small bookcase fit the rest of the house’s design. “I think you will have to dispose of everything if you want to make it more than a few weeks, hm?”

“Yeah,” something was wrong. He clearly hadn’t called the police. Perhaps he was waiting for her to fall asleep. No, he was encouraging her. Without irony or a trace of dishonesty, he wanted her to get away with it. “I will. Shame. I worked hard on that car.”

“Do you have a passport?”

“Uh. No. Never needed one.”

“Mm.” He left the room, returned a moment later with a soft robe and a small pair of men’s pajamas. Plaid wool, they smelled of cedar and something like him. “They never fit me,” he said. “Providential.” There was the irony, she thought.

“Thank you,” she meant it, he could sense that. Her earnestness warmed something deep inside him.

“There’s a bathroom just next door if you need it, I have my own in my room so I won’t be intruding.” It was as if they were old friends who had had a falling out and were now awkwardly forced to share a top floor together. He was gracious and welcoming but reserved, private, maybe trying too hard to make her feel safe. So she wouldn’t run. “Tea?” he asked.

She should’ve said no. It was late and that was the polite thing wasn’t it? But she heard herself sigh “Yes,” almost like begging. Please, yes.

He smiled, actually, which put her at ease. “I’ll leave you to change then. I’ll bring it up to the study. That’s across the hall, door’s open.”

He was gone but Clarice felt secure, surrounded by objects Dr. Lecter owned and had put in place. He was still there with her somehow, comforting her. She left the robe open and the top button of the warm shirt undone. The study door was ajar as he’d said and a soft light was on. Lots of books, some papers. He drew, she noticed, he was very good. The drawings were marvelous, really, if she wasn’t worried about gushing her appreciation too much.

He snuck up on her. One second she was alone, unwrapping his sketched copy of Carlo Maratta’s “Rebecca at the Well,” the next he was behind her, hands stiff at his sides, leaning over her shoulder to see. “A work in progress,” his voice was soft, so close to her ear.

“I didn’t mean to pry,” she apologized. “It’s very good.” There was no reason for her opinion to matter. She couldn’t draw and she hardly knew anything about art but it was all she could think to say.

“Yes, you did.” He didn’t mean it rudely, just honestly. “It’s perfectly fine.”

The tea was in a Japanese kettle on a tray with two small cups. Clarice hadn’t even heard him put it down on the table. There was a fireplace she could imagine warming the room even more, making it downright cozy but it was early morning and they were both exhausted.

“I really don’t know why you’re being so generous,” she accepted the cup he poured her. “But thank you.”

“You have already thanked me,” he said warmly, ushering her to a plush chair and sitting almost too close, just opposite her. He did not drink the tea he poured for himself, just stared into her eyes then at her hands. “You’re a student. Of what?”

“Criminal justice. I wanted to join the FBI.” The words came steady though she wanted to throw things and scream and cry. “Can’t say that’ll happen now.” The tea was so warm, so good, a little bitter on the aftertaste. She said as much.

“My own blend,” he told her. “My aunt gave me the original recipe.” Only half-lying, he wanted to be honest with her. She didn’t need to know what he had added as it wouldn’t harm her and would be out of her system in forty-eight hours.

She was grateful he would tell her such things, like they were old friends. It made things seem less hideous. “Do you travel?” she asked suddenly, thinking of the drawings and the antiques. An eyebrow rose.

Miss Starling wasn’t just being polite. She was interested. “I did for a while.” The answer was left open, for her to chase and fumble for. Everything about Dr. Lecter was interesting and kind. Starling wished she’d known men like this before. Now it was almost too late.


	2. Bedtime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to three cups of Dr. Lecter's spiked tea, Starling is feeling chatty. But her guard is still up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My favorite parts of the books were when Hannibal lost his typical control of every situation just by being around Clarice. I LOVE that she frightens and confuses him so that's what I was going for.

“Where are you from originally?” Her tea was gone so he poured her another small cup.

“Lithuania,” he said before he could stop himself. She smelled sweet and inviting and he was becoming foolish. She better drink up. “And you, Miss Starling?”

“Oh, um, Clarice. Please.” She toyed with the edge of the chair arm. “West Virginia. Really small town. I was in the foster system though so I moved around. Kentucky, both Carolinas, Massachusetts, you know” Why was she talking so much. He wouldn’t want to know more about her than he already did. She was a killer and he was a very, very kind man. Must be lonely though, she realized.

That piqued his interest, she could tell, orphans were always interesting. She heard herself tell him the whole story. About her daddy dying and Momma not being able to support them all. She still had young siblings somewhere but they had never come to find her and she had given up on wanting to go home. “There was nothing there for me. I wanted to make something of myself, not die in the same shithole I was born in.” She covered her mouth when she realized she’d said all that. “Sorry, that was rude.”

He was smiling. He was listening. Hannibal might as well have been taking notes. If she hadn’t believed him about being a psychiatrist, she would’ve seen the proof now. The way his legs folded, relaxed, the way his hands gently rested against each other, the way those red, red eyes always found her green ones when she thought he was looking past her.

How long had they sat there, just talking. There were no clocks in the room and the doctor had removed his watch and waistcoat before sitting. He loosened his tie now. She had just finished telling him about the relatives she’d lived with when she stopped short.

“It just didn’t work out so they sent me to an orphanage,” she finished hurriedly. The tea was cold but she’d had three cups of the stuff.

He didn’t have to contradict her. Hannibal knew what was missing. She would tell him everything, he decided, before he showed her how truly lucky she had been to dump her corpse so close to his. She yawned.

“Sorry,” she mumbled. “Can’t believe I talked your ear off like this.”

“Bedtime,” was all he said.

“Yeah,” she giggled from exhaustion.

-

She smelled bacon. And sautéed mushrooms. Starling’s stomach growled painfully and she tried to remember where the hell she was. She was too hot so she kicked off the covers. The room was a spare in a big, old house. She arrived late and tired.

“I killed a man in cold blood,” she remembered.

She stumbled out the door. Where had Dr. Lecter told her the bathroom was – one door down, same side. She ran to the toilet, vomited mostly liquid. Clarice Starling, honor roll student, orphan, soon-to-be FBI trainee had killed Professor Logan, PhD for telling her she would have to suck his cock for a decent grade – a grade she had more than earned.

Clarice washed her face and tried not to look in the mirror. Hannibal had left an extra toothbrush for her, and a hairbrush and soap and a towel and even a change of clothes from her car, though she only noticed the first thing. She cleaned up and noticed her shaky hands. Starling took a few deep breaths, hand on her stomach, and looked in the mirror. The pillow had left a delicate crease across her cheekbone. Her hair was tussled but not a complete mess – when had she taken her hair down and where was her hair tie. These thoughts annoyed her.

She went back to her room, collected the robe her host had given her, and went stealthily downstairs. Whatever he was cooking smelled delicious and she realized she was ravenous, despite her nausea.

“Good morning,” he said without turning around when she walked into the kitchen. “Coffee, juice, or both?” Hannibal turned off the stove and smiled at his guest. She looked well-rested, still pale, and confused. How much she would remember depended on the strength of her consciousness and how many more questions he posed.

“Uh, both thank you.” All worry about imposing on him was gone. Clearly Lecter liked to play host. Maybe he was hitting on her, she wondered, but then remembered the circumstances of their meeting and knew he’d have to be some kind of psychopath to even think about it. He was only being kind but his demeanor was anything but paternal. He acted very much like a familiar friend or lover who was still trying to impress her.

The coffee was full-bodied and very strong. She was not surprised to see a press and bag of beans on the counter. There was something very pleasant and reassuring about knowing everything here was his creation. All his design. “I trust him,” she realized, surveying her own emotions. “I really, really believe in him.” It was a bizarre feeling.

The grape juice was homemade too, though he admitted it was a gift from a friend. He had to cut it with water for her it was so bitter. She was enjoying herself.

“What is that?” She smelled the familiar morning smell of eggs but these were special.

“Coddled eggs with chives, shiitake and lait de chevre.” He was boasting, she noticed. But, hey, he deserved to.

“Smells heavenly.”

His proud smile was enough to send shivers down her spine. “Do I want to fuck him because he’s been so nice to me or because I’m actually attracted to him?” She had left the top button undone again and the robe open and she leaned forward a little. “Wow, a killer and desperate for shag. How many sins can I commit in one day? Slow down, girl.” Clarice had the decency to blush and drink her coffee quietly.

She helped set a small table next to a window overlooking the street and he set the food in front of her. She felt underdressed sitting across from him; he was wearing soft pants and a casual but well-fitted sweater. He had showered, definitely, and shaved from the looks of it.

He could feel her eyes on him but ate peacefully. “How long have you been awake?” she inquired.

“Since 9:30. I haven’t called any law enforcement, Clarice. Eat up.” She looked at the oven clock; it was eleven.  

There was bacon and toast and the best eggs she had ever tasted. He hardly met her eye, though he wasn’t avoiding her. So nonchalant. Did he rescue murderers from the woods every week? There were slight circles under his eyes and he didn’t seem the type to sleep in. “Kind of rude to interrogate your host though,” she considered.

“Thanks again,” was all she could muster. “That was delicious.”

“I’m glad.” He genuinely seemed so. “Your things are in the upstairs bathroom. I left you a towel and soap. Don’t be angry, but I took care of your car.”

She was helping clear the table and almost missed the last part. “You did what?”

“Couldn’t leave it on the street, Clarice. It’s safe, far away. Can’t be traced to you or me.”

Had he stranded her or aided her…

“I’ll take care of these if you’d like a shower.”

“Thanks…” She wandered upstairs and took her time. Was it best to turn herself in, run, or stay? His home was so tempting. Though there had been no verbal invitation to stay, Clarice knew that was what he wanted. For how long? And why?

She felt more like herself after a shower, even though he’d given her some expensive bath soap that was too floral for her taste. He had saved her hastily packed bag from the mustang and her purse and keys but that was all. She had fresh underwear and jeans, at least. And her own pajamas. He was downstairs in what must be his office, writing something. He had changed again, into a suit. Would she always be so underdressed with him?

She knocked softly on the open door and he smiled again – his smiles seemed a little more ferocious every time. “Come in, Clarice.”

“Dr. Lecter, uh,” how was she even supposed to start. “I’m really grateful for everything. I wish I could repay you. But I guess it’s time I got going. Don’t want anyone to know you were involved or anything.”

“That’s very noble of you, Clarice. You are, of course, welcome to stay here as long as you like. I hope you don’t run out on me so soon.” He was only being kind, she knew, but it almost sounded like he was pleading. Don’t go.

“Thanks,” she couldn’t face those red eyes anymore so Starling focused on the drapes behind his desk. “But really. You’ve gone to enough trouble.”

Something in the air switched when he stood and paced in front of the desk. He was no longer inviting but recommending, diagnosing. “If I promise you they won’t catch you, will you stay?”

“You can’t –”

“I can. I have ways, Clarice. Stay and I’ll keep you safe until you truly want to leave.” He meant it. He was standing now; hand in his vest pocket, leaning against the desk. She believed him. She had done something unforgiveable, ruined every part of her foreseeable future, but somehow he could defend her.

She crossed the space between them in two quick strides. She didn’t know what to do with her hands so she just kissed him, hard on the mouth, missing slightly and hitting a tooth against the corner of his lip. If Starling had been able to watch from every angle, she would’ve seen Hannibal Lecter’s fist clench as he tried desperately not to pull her tighter against him, his chest heave as he held his breath, his eyes close momentarily and his nostrils expand, taking in every scent of her he could.

“Sorry,” she whispered. Her life was unraveling with all the mistakes she had made in the last twenty-four hours. “Sorry, sorry, sorry.” Starling’s hands tangled in her hair, covering her eyes which she willed not to cry. What had she been thinking.

He pulled her hands away, gently but firmly, and she was looking into his red eyes again. He laughed and kissed her forehead.

“Stay,” he said into her hair. “Or don’t. But do what you want to, what you feel is best. The only thing you’ll ever owe me here is honesty.”

It sounded simple enough to her then but those words were perilous. “Thanks, doctor.”

“Hannibal,” he corrected.

“Ok.”


	3. Friday Night Dinner Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarice spends a day getting to know Lecter's home and trying to reason her way through a terrible situation. Hannibal is woefully frustrated at work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I sense a sex scene on the horizon....  
> -  
> ***mention of the possibility of rape, nothing actually happened***

“Well, I’ve murdered a man and just threw myself at the first decent person I met. How much worse could things get,” Starling thought to herself. Dr. Lecter had patients to see at a private office in the city and he had told her to make herself at home. All of his books and other things were at her disposal.

He had even been kind in his rejection. The choice to stay had been hers; it wasn’t as if Clarice had anywhere else to go. Maybe he was the one in a million who wasn’t attracted to younger women, maybe he was afraid of her, or maybe he just thought keeping a murderer as a pet would be a fun experiment. She tried not to think about it. No one could trace her here; Clarice and Hannibal had never met or associated before and she was certain no one had seen her mustang pull up to the curb. She wondered, briefly, where he could’ve disposed of her car in such a hurry.

It was the middle of her second to last semester and she was missing two important classes today. She had no way of emailing the professors or getting the notes. And how was she even considering going back to school when she had killed a faculty member. She groaned inwardly. Maybe the police wouldn’t trace the murder to her. She had no record, she was a good student, had a fair amount of friends; maybe they would just leave it at a missing person and she would make it through this.

“But could I live with myself?”

Starling decided to explore the house. She didn’t want to intrude but Hannibal had told her to make herself at home. The second floor hallway continued back to a room with more books and a huge skylight. There was a blank canvas in the corner and a collection of charcoal and paints. There were flowers arranged on a small, decorative table. An old-fashioned girl’s dress sat unused on a manikin with a string of pearls hooked into the collar. Strangely sentimental.

The final door upstairs was closed so she only peeked through it – a large bed dominated the center of the room and - There was an intruder!

No. She took a deep breath and her hand paused over her fluttering heart. No, it was a suit of armor. A samurai sword was displayed in front of it, candles and flowers decorated the table it stood on. Odd that this of all his things should sit so close to Lecter’s bed. She wanted to see more of his sanctuary but thought better of it; it was none of her business.

Downstairs she found the kitchen again; large and modern, immaculately clean, sparse counters, lots of storage space and two ovens. The fridge was large and fully stocked – including a vacuum-sealed package of kidneys in liquid. Starling’s nose wrinkled involuntarily. She had never been able to stomach raw meat, one of the reasons she didn’t cook much.

The small table they had used for breakfast was opposite the kitchen island, near a window with a small seat, more decoration than anything. The room beyond was a stately dining room with an impressive walnut table and ten chairs. There was room for more. The table was bare except for an unorthodox array of flowers and fruits for a centerpiece. She had never seen anything like it, plants she hardly recognized, dark red and deep, deep greens. Clarice couldn’t guess how many thousands of dollars of china and silver were in the cabinet and its drawers. She didn’t doubt for a second everything in his home was authentic and top-of-the-line.

A Japanese scroll painting of mountains and red flowers stretched across the longest wall. A note in calligraphy characters was scrawled on the bottom edge, along with a red stamp. Starling felt uneasy in this room. There was so much to break and displace. “I don’t belong here,” it was another strange feeling of simply knowing, understanding something about his lifestyle that was unspoken but true.

The last door off of the kitchen was padlocked. Starling didn’t think much of it.

The other side of the house was mostly the large living room. A marble fireplace that Clarice could probably lay down in was surrounded by photographs of landscapes and a black and white portrait of an Asian woman with pearls in her ears and a sophisticated haircut. She had a thin, delicate nose and a round, smiling mouth. It was too old to be of a spouse or lover. Who was she?

The walls were blue. A human skull (was it real?) sat on a long table with other objects of interest. There were books in cases too but they seemed more for display than loving or reading. Medical manuals, encyclopedias, leather-bound tomes of unknown origin. There was an instrument she could not place and a piano in the back, in front of a window with the curtains closed.

She looked out; his backyard was sparse – manicured, not lived in. A small herb garden was drying up in the autumnal air, maple trees shed their sunset and blood foliage, a small pond with round rocks sat in the middle. There were wooden folding chairs stacked on a small deck and a large grill, covered in anticipation of the season.

There was a hidden backdoor she discovered through a broom closet which led outside. The air was brisk. She should be in a desk or at the library, finishing homework and planning her final semester. Instead, Clarice Starling was hiding from the law she had hoped to serve, in a strange man’s house, exploring through warm and richly furnished rooms that did not belong to her. She did not want to leave.

Starling finally settled at the kitchen table at the window with a copy of Baudelaire’s “Flowers of Evil.” She had never had much time for poetry, neither a profitable nor practical discourse, but she enjoyed it when she could. The French original with an English translation was as foreign as Latin to her but at least the words were pretty and the tone suited her mood. Should she be happy to get away with murder? Or ashamed?

She couldn’t answer that so she got up and did a few crunches and jumping jacks. “Fuck it,” she said to herself. “If it wasn’t me, it would’ve been some other outraged female with a mean backhand and a temper.”

-

Clarice wouldn’t sit still for long, Dr. Lecter knew, so better lock the basement door just in case. It was fortunate his latest appointment for Friday had been cancelled two days ago. He could run back home to Starling no later than 4:30. If he were perfectly honest with himself, Lecter was less than attentive to the three patients he did see. In his spare moments he researched “Clarice Starling” only to be met with an impressive but vague list of her achievements. She was intelligent, a peer leader in high school, a short stint for a track team before she had mysteriously passed from that household to another district.

She was a senior Criminal Justice major, headed for a no doubt bright future at the FBI Academy. She had a gun license, was not a registered hunter, and had won an award for accuracy at a gun range just outside of Baltimore. Very few photographs of her existed on the web, only through academic articles, in groups of other students. No social media accounts that he could trace. He had memorized her banking information out of her purse early that morning. Her accounts were typical for a student; small numbers, carefully budgeted. She had a federal work study and a handful of grants allowing her to succeed at a private college.

As far as he could find, her story about passing from home to home was true, not that he hadn’t believed her. She couldn’t have lied to him if she wanted to. Tonight they would try again without an aid. Well, maybe just copious amounts of wine.

Her birthday was coming up, the day before Christmas. She would be twenty-one and she had already killed a man. Anyone watching Hannibal Lecter in that moment could suppose the broken glass was an accident – that his hand had simply brushed too far to the left while reaching for a pen. The pieces shattered and settled on the floor. They did not rearrange themselves into some new vessel but remained inanimate and useless. He was still sweeping up the pieces when his final patient knocked politely and stepped in.

-

4:57 PM and Clarice jumped out of her seat when the front door opened, letting in a few stray leaves and the smell of wind and Hannibal Lecter.

“Hey!” She grinned. Company at last to stop her from going mad.

He smiled at her without meaning to. How domestic. “Good evening, Clarice. How are you feeling?” He deposited a paper bag of groceries and a garment bag on the kitchen table.

“Oh, I’m alright. How was the office?” She was itching to ask a dozen questions about his work, his home, his reasons for allowing a murderer to stay in his home. Or break the tension and just see what would happen if she touched him again. It wasn’t as if he would shatter into pieces, she thought, but it was better to back off and let him lead. Starling didn’t want to frighten him off.

“A normal day,” he replied, removing his jacket and vest. “Hungry?”

-

He let Clarice help him in the kitchen and if she had known him better, she would certainly have felt honored. Without trying to sound ungrateful she said, “I’ve never had kidneys before.”

He had rolled up the sleeves of his purple shirt and was draining the meat and began slicing them in half. “It is a rich and tough organ. Good for the body, if you can prepare it correctly. Would you mind chopping vegetables?”

“Sure,” she did her best but quickly realized he was more skilled with a knife. He finished preparing the kidneys and began to heat a pan with butter. He half-smiled like a devil and took another knife, slicing through the parsley, carrots, and mushrooms he had given her with more skill than was necessary.

“You’re a pro,” Clarice praised. He was showing off again she noticed when he winked at her. It was almost adorable. He seared the kidneys for a minute, added sherry and the mushrooms, drizzled oil around them and wiped his hands on the waist-apron he had donned shortly before. He inhaled, looked at her, and reached just behind her to a cabinet with wine glasses.

Another unnecessary way he exerted himself. His arm was just inches from her face and he seemed taller than he really was. He was strong and graceful. Hannibal opened a dark bottle of a wine Clarice couldn’t pronounce properly. She stuck her tongue out at him when he laughed at her butchery of Portuguese.

The wine bubbled as he poured it. When he handed it to her, his arm was outstretched so she had to step closer to reach it. Hannibal’s index finger brushed along hers and his eyes burned holes through her own. He sautéed tomatoes with asparagus and placed the finished kidneys and mushrooms on a bed of them, poured rosemary-infused olive oil over the dish.

He removed the apron and put the vest and suit jacket back on. He seemed to consider something, looked at the bottle and at her glass. “Would you like to change?”

“I don’t have anything else,” she admitted. “Another reason I should probably have left.”

He passed her the garment bag and looked at her very seriously. “Only if you like it and only if you want to. I’ll be in the dining room.”

The downstairs bathroom was next to the hidden backdoor and the broom closet. She changed as quick as she could – how had he guessed her size, from her clothes tags she decided. Really it was not hard for him to guess her measurements and choose a fitting color scheme for her. The dress was shimmering dark green silk – real silk. It was short, just above the knee, with three-quarter sleeves and a scoop neck. Conservative and comfortable. But she looked nice enough. She left her hair down.

When had he placed a box of heels outside the door? She hadn’t heard him. They were dark plum heels with fabric which entwined up the bridge of her foot and knotted behind the ankle. “Ok. Guess things had to get weird at some point,” she decided as long as he didn’t try anything, she would let him live through this.

She said as much when she stepped into the dining room again. He looked shocked at the very thought, said nothing. Had she offended him? “You are extremely beautiful, Clarice. And I am sorry we didn’t meet under better circumstances. I didn’t give you the dress so I could molest you.”

He sounded so heartfelt, so genuinely touched by whatever it was she had done, and that last quip was just the least bit exasperated so she dropped the subject but located the sharpest knife and sat close to it. The smile she allowed him was worth letting her choose a seat opposite of the lighting he had hoped for.

She drank more than she should have, under the circumstances, but at least she wasn’t talking his ear off like last night. Actually, he did most of the talking, asking her perfectly normal questions here and there. She was drunk quickly, even with the hearty meal, dizzy and warm and giggly. A poor joke he made seemed rioutously funny for a moment. She wanted to open her chest and hand him a beating heart with windows he could look into. So there would be no more misunderstandings between them.

Starling did not think she had said that aloud but apparently her words were not absolutely under her control anymore. “Then why don’t you,” he replied, setting his wine aside and folding his hands under his chin, staring straight through her.

She exhaled, wished she had more wine or some of the tea he had spiked last night. “Fuck.”

Somehow it just came pouring out of her. That unseasonably warm morning, before sunrise. The sound of helpless, horrified screaming. The smell of blood and manure. The feeling of unequivocal terror and running. As fast as she could, through the night air, clutching one rescued lamb as if it even mattered. Her horse, stubborn Hannah, annoyed and unresponsive until small but plucky Clarice Starling had smacked her rear as hard as her little arms could. The lamb burrowing deep into her sweater, still screaming, so much screaming, so much blood. Sunrise and she was still riding, saddle sores forming. Hannah beginning to buck and refusing to budge another inch. Young Starling choking out sobs, squeezing the woolen thing in her arms until it kicked and bruised her. Hannah craning her chestnut neck down to nuzzle her cheek when she dismounted.

“The Spring slaughter,” was all he said. Clarice touched her own cheek with a steady but nervous hand; foreign tears were resting there. She brushed them away.

“A neighbor found me asleep under a tree around nine. Made me ride home with him but I wouldn’t let go of the lamb. Someone had to pick up Hannah later. They never yelled at me, just decided I couldn’t stay. It wasn’t working out.”

He made no judgment. “You see them when you close your eyes.” It was not a question.

They sat in silence for a time. Clarice was fascinated by the light glinting on an unused spoon. He rose, took their dishes, returned with a small, rectangular box and placed it in front of her.

“I think it’s time you talked about it, Clarice.”

She opened the box to see a small syringe with a clear liquid inside. Strange, indeed.

They ended up in the upstairs study again. It felt safer to her, more private. This time he did start a small fire, left all the lights off except for candles behind her. It wouldn’t hurt her and she would remember everything; it would merely open doors she preferred to keep firmly shut. “This is why,” she knew, “this is why he brought me here. If I say no, I may as well leave. We won’t have anything else to say to each other.”

The only thing you’ll ever owe me here is honesty.

If he wanted to hurt her, he would have done so. She had been perfectly vulnerable and willing in the last twenty-four hours. “This is the fastest I’ve ever gotten to know a person,” she said, holding out her arm. “You work fast.”

“I don’t like to waste time,” he said, needle pricking skin.

“What now?”

He loosened his tie and removed the suit jacket. “Now relax. When you’re ready, tell me the first thing that comes to mind.”

“Huh,” she didn’t feel any different. “I keep wondering why you didn’t call the police and why you rejected me this morning. And those two things keep, kinda, circling, y’know? All around my head.”

“Does it surprise you that I find you interesting?”

“Yeah, I guess it does.”

“What made you kill him?” He really didn’t waste time.

“He wanted me to perform oral sex for a good grade.”

“No, that was his final proposition, wasn’t it? Why did you really kill him?”

“He was awful.” He looked at her patiently but raised an eyebrow. “There was another girl. He wanted me to get close to her.”

“And?” Jesus H Christ, Dr. Lecter was relentless.

“He thought I was an easy target because I’m an orphan. He wanted me to get to know her and convince her to go to his home one evening. For a study session. He wanted me to help him rape her.”

“Another student?”

“A graduate. Teacher’s aide. So I fucking killed him.”

Hannibal looked at Starling like she was the sun and moon and every goddamn star in the sky.


End file.
